When the counterrevolutionary clouds gathered over Cairo, the army acted like an accomplice seeking an alibi. The anonymous text messages it kept releasing to the public came thick and hard, meaningless and purposeless, like the pitches of desperate salesmen before Christmas. The messages were meant to absolve them of all responsibility, to place them on neutral ground, but on the streets, the grounds were not neutral. One message promised that the army wouldn't use force against “this great nation.” It didn't say anything about allowing others to use force. It all started on Tuesday, the day in which Mubarak delivered a speech saying that he will not run again. The speech was delivered at night, but the army had started deploying early in the afternoon, blocking the movement of pedestrians in front of the television building, and diverting pedestrian traffic around Tahrir Square. Heading back to the island of Zamalek on Tuesday afternoon, I wasn't allowed to use the 6 October Bridge, I was told not to climb the ramp heading west from the Egyptian museum. That same ramp would two days later serve as a spring board for the pro-Mubarak crowds with deadly impact. The army wouldn't stop them then. Returning to the Tahrir Square that night, I noticed a big demonstration in front of the television building, with music blaring from loudspeakers. Finally a revolution in style, I thought. As I approached, I noticed that the crowds were chanting the exact slogans of the anti-Mubarak demonstrators, albeit in reverse. Instead of “howa ha yemshi” (he will go), they were saying “mesh ha yemshi” (he will stay). They were a mixed crowd of all ages, mirroring the composition of the anti-Mubarak protestors, a presentable, convincing cross-section of Egyptian society. Except ... they were threatening. One of them approached me, grabbed my arm, and said, “I love Mubarak”, in English. “Do you love Mubarak?” he asked. My wife grabbed me in the other direction as I scowled at the man, mumbling a timid, “not really.” He didn't follow us, but I thought for a second that he would. By the next day, these fairly well represented crowds swelled in number, gathering in Mohandessin in west Cairo and getting filmed for “balanced reportage” by the media. The counter-revolution was already in full swing, mimicking the original protestors, imitating their age composition, chanting similar slogans but in reverse, and generally offering a mirror image to the eight-day long protests. But the imitation wouldn't last for long. The next morning, Wednesday, the counterrevolution encircled Tahrir Square. I had spent two hours in the square, then gone out for breakfast. Coming back, the small roads around the street were filled with pro-Mubarak crowds, looking a little a bit younger, rougher, and not really interested in politics. These pro-Mubarak people looked distinctly like the thugs that we've seen for years around police stations and near riot-police cars. They dress in thick jackets, don't really talk much, and usually carry sticks. They are the ones who block polling stations, beat up demonstrators, and generally harm anyone deemed disrespectful of the regime. I don't mess with them. But the attempt to maintain a “demographic” balance in the pro-Mubarak crowds was still there. Standing on Talaat Harb Square, very close to the Tahrir Square, I noticed a car full of children, really young, five or six year olds. There was one adult in the car, a woman in the backseat who couldn't possibly be their mother, unless she had two triplets in quick succession. This wasn't a place for such small children to be. But it could explain why the car was there. The anti-Mubarak demonstrators brought their children to Tahrir Square, and the counterrevolution, not to be bested, wanted to keep the same appearance. The pro-Mubarak organizers wanted children in front of the cameras, so they ordered some as if from a fast food restaurant. Someone, I am guessing, must have offered a lucrative price, and a grownup took the money and offered to drive the children. The woman was hired to keep them quiet, and perhaps was the mother of one or two of them. I could be wrong, but if that scene suggested anything, it suggested conspiracy. A lot of other cars started coming to Talaat Harb Square. Taxi drivers entered the square, displaying pro-Mubarak slogans on their windshields. They drove around, blowing their horns, but looked bored doing so – as if they didn't rehearse enough, or weren't paid enough. Private cars did the same, but with more passion, unfurling Egyptian flags from their windows. This was new and ominous. The anti-Mubarak demonstrators didn't use cars in demonstrating, for the obvious reasons that cars are too vulnerable for such a fluid situation. The pro-Mubarak demonstrators came with cars, and didn't seem to worry about it. They felt protected, but by who? The answer wasn't clear at that point. They seemed confident. Confident at least to challenge a crowd that was a million or so people only the previous day. They didn't seem brave – just purposeful and intent. Someone, I am guessing, has told them not to worry. Bigger forces were behind them. Bigger than the one-million strong crowd of anti-Mubarak demonstrators. A man drove on a motorcycle with a woman behind him, wearing face-veil, or niqab, carrying a pro-Mubarak sign. She was taller than average, and I found myself staring at her wrists, searching for a sign of her true sex. The wrists were those of a woman. This, somewhat, reassured me. If the demographics in the pro-Mubarak crowd are kept right, with women and children around, albeit hired or paid, that's a good thing, for it means that potential violence would be kept to a minimum. On my way back to Zamalek, via the Qasr al-Nil Bridge, I ran into the pro-Mubarak crowds once more. On this side, the crowds were well-chosen, well-dressed, almost believable in their calm arguments. They stood civilly around, arguing with the anti-Mubarak protestors, saying things like “that's enough, the government is going to meet your demands, pull out of the square.” Not exactly convincing to me, but at least peaceful. Two hours later, the scene changed. It was Wednesday afternoon, and the well-dressed people had gone away. Tahrir Square was being stormed by pro-Mubarak's crowds. I was home watching television as the incredible scenes unfolded with men on horse- and camel-back charging forth, past army checkpoints. Now this was during the curfew. The army, just a day before, had blocked the northern access to the square, forcing pedestrians to walk a long circle to the east to make an exit. Now the horsemen were coming forth from the northern access. How did this happen? And, how the hell can you get horses and camels to the centre of a city under siege? At this point, millions received another text message from the army. A short, unsigned message, advising us to “beware of rumours and listen to the voice of reason.” Terse, rhythmic, and utterly senseless, like the voice of an ancient oracle predicting turmoil in a distant land. The army was washing its hands of the blood, or imagining itself to be doing so. Meanwhile, it ordered its vehicles to step aside and let another pro-Mubarak throng go on the offensive. The children were gone, the convertible was gone, the well-dressed people with their lovely arguments were gone. Only the Molotov cocktails stayed, and more of those kept coming.
